and opaque, their blue too dark even for
beauty. It was a day when "pencilled" eyebrows inspired the sonnet,
when mouths were rosebuds, or should be for fashion's sake, when forms
were slight and languid, and a freckle was a blemish on the pink and
white complexions of England's high-born maidens. Anne was tanned by
the winds of moor and sea, she had a superb majestic figure, and
strode when she took her exercise in a thoroughly unladylike manner.
She had not an attribute, not even an affectation, in common with
the beauties of Bath House; and the reigning novelists of the day,
Disraeli, Bulwer, Dickens, Lady Blessington, Mrs. Norton, would never
have modelled a heroine of romance on her. There were plenty of fine
women in England even then, but they were not in fashion, and when
fate took them to court they soon learned to reduce their proportions,
mince their gait, and bleach their complexions.

But Anne had not yet been to court and had arrived that day at Bath
House. She drew down her heavy brows and looked as haughty as she felt
shy and impatient, staring at the dark oblongs of open window, beyond
which, effaced by the glare about her, was the warm perfumed tropic
night. But in the early Victorian era it would not have been thought
becoming for a girl to step out upon a terrace alone, nor, indeed, to
leave the wing of her chaperon, save briefly for the dance. Anne did
not dance, and had remained in the great saloon after dinner watching
with deep interest, for a time, the groups of men and women in evening
dress, playing whist or loo, the affected young ladies and their
gallants, strolling in from the music room, to show themselves off in
the long lane between the tables. But the sight, the most splendid
she had ever seen, had palled, the glare of the innumerable candles,
reflected in the mirrors, and even the crimson brocade of the walls,
dazzled her eyes. She had her reasons, moreover, for wishing to be
alone, a condition she had not realised since she had left England,
now nearly a month since, and she fairly sprang to her feet as her
aunt laid down her cards and signified that it was her pleasure to
retire. Anne rearranged Mrs. Nunn's lace shawl, which had fallen
to her waist in the ardour of the game, gathered up her fan,
smelling-salts, and winnings, then, with a slight drop in her spirit,
steeled herself to walk the great length of the saloon to the thrice
blessed exit. Mrs. Nunn, who had been a beauty, and